


The Student

by JAvatar



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 02:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18043877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAvatar/pseuds/JAvatar
Summary: Just a story that had been bouncing in my head for years, of a relationship between a teacher and his student.





	The Student

Teaching, can be a real bitch sometimes. Especially when you teach at two different schools. But, sometimes that’s what you have to do. My degree looked wonderful in its frame, but the private sector just was lacking in real opportunities, the pay wasn’t enough. Working in the public sector, being a court appointed therapist, or the prison or institution systems, were soul eating. I was able to get tenure at the university, my thesis for my doctorate was gripping, and turned many heads. But then, my approach to psychology broke the norms, by fully acknowledging all the standard schools of thoughts as true, but none fully accurate. My skill was pretty damned good, of course, but again, the pay wasn’t ever enough, or it was just too crushing.

And tenure is great, being a doctor of psychology, but even that wasn’t enough for me. Psych 101, abnormal behaviors, and human sexuality all fell to me, but my schedule was still very open. There just weren’t enough people coming into college that wanted to understand the human mind, which was a shame. And, while tenure ensured my pay, other parts of my life made my budget tighter than I’d like. Of course, I could simply scale back, and I did, but it felt so...empty. So I started to look to expand, with the Board’s permission of course. There was a high school close enough, and they had two openings, one for a counselor, and for a psychology teacher for seniors. Seeing the opportunity to perhaps expand the minds of students, draw an interest in Psychology, I applied for both positions. It took work, but I did get both jobs, but not for full pay. Full pay for the counselor position, which was higher paying, and seventy-five percent teaching pay.

Between the University and the High School, I was able to live my life as I enjoyed it. This went on for a few years, before Ginger. As I started my Intro to Psychology class for the new seniors, she drew my attention almost immediately. The high school wasn’t catholic, but it was uniform required. They had strict anti-bullying policies, which was wonderful, but the enforcement of these rules was lackluster at best. The school’s location in the city meant a pretty diverse student body, from poverty to wealthy, and ethnic backgrounds across the board. But instead of bringing everyone together, there were always people who looked down on others, and Ginger seemed to be the target of, sadly, everyone.

She was quiet, her uniform blouse too tight for her bust, her skirt never seemed to be covering her right, but it wasn’t like what you’d see in porn. Instead of tantalizing, she looked sloppy. The rich and popular girls looked down on her for her appearance, the less well-off mocked her for being a slut, because why else would the uniform be so wrong on her body. The jocks all saw a nerd, and the nerds saw a mouse. The goths, and believe it or not even in a uniformed school they still managed to stand out, considered her too conformist to be included, which always made my blood boil considering how goth started, and was supposed to be inclusive, not judging.

Ginger had transferred in half-way through the previous year, and she had come to my counselor office within a week. She seemed listless, had no direction, and the targeting from what seemed to be the whole student body was already stressing her out. I quickly learned that she had a shit life at home, father abandoned her, mother belittling and berating her for everything. Within an hour, I figured out that her mother blamed her for her father leaving them, and her self-esteem was non-existent. A virgin, which I was glad for because too many in her position throw themselves at the boys around them as a form of self-validation, but she had it in her head that even if she gave it up to anyone, no one would take her. I knew better, students are nowhere near as good at hiding who they’d bang as they’d like to think.

I felt for the girl instantly, and softly urged her to visit any time she needed, since my position as a counselor didn’t cost the students anything but their time. I also spent time with her, finding her interests, urging her to play to her strengths and passions. She seemed fascinated by what I was able to do and figure out, so I suggested she take my Intro to Psychology the next year, while helping her place her other academic skills.

So, when she came in, hair frizzy and messy, blouse still not buttoned correctly, skirt off center, thigh-highs not as tight as they could be, and she took the front and center seat, I did smile. The look she gave me told me more than the hours I had spent with her the previous semester, and I silently cursed my luck, knowing she was already attaching herself to me, seeing a potential father figure, and a validator.

During the year, I played two roles for her, teacher and therapist. In class, she was attentive, taking everything I said seriously, taking notes on almost every topic, and her grades in my class showed the devotion. “Ginger,” I said after class after the midterms, “You have, hands-down, the highest score in the entire class.” She couldn’t meet my eyes, the smile threatening to split her face, cheeks reddening from her blush, but I knew damned better than to address that. “I mean it, you don’t only show the ability to absorb and regurgitate the information, you GET it. This question on Freud was college level depth understanding of the phases of childhood development, INCLUDING pointing out how society influenced his model, and the fallacies in it.”

During the second semester, she came to my office one day, in tears. In spite of her grades being the highest they’d ever been, her mother still looked down on her, accusing her of sleeping with her teachers, cheating, and all sorts of other bullshit. “Ginger, you...you know better.” Handing her the tissues, I offered a smile, as she looked up, drying her eyes. “You do know better. I’ve seen you in Psychology, I’ve talked with your math and english teachers. You are studious, capable, smart, and when you speak up very witty.” The blushing smile came back, and she shifted in her seat, the skirt lifting the wrong way, and I paused.

“Ginger,” she looked up, then her eyes went wide, trying to cover the scars on her hip, my eyes on hers. “Ginger, what is that.” She swallowed, breaking my gaze, “I fell on some gravel, Mr. S. It cut me up pretty bad, during spring break.” Her left arm came up to her right bicep, holding herself, as I watched, silent. Finally, I nodded, “Ok. If that’s what happened, ok.” Still not looking at me, I saw her jaw clench, and she nodded sharply, and I continued, “But, and I’m only just saying here, but if it was someone else, we can get you help, get you away from them. And...if it wasn’t an accident….there is no judgement from me.” This drew her gaze, the glasses doing a good job of hiding the fresh tears in her eyes, but she was met with just a soft smile, “I mean, no one commits suicide by cutting their thigh or hip. It’s called self-harm, and the reasons for it are as varied as the people who do it.” She swallowed as I stood, moving to the mini-fridge and getting a couple bottles of water, handing her one, opening and drinking the other. “I know, you fell, but if you ever feel like...hurting yourself might make the pain less, come talk to me.” She was still silent, opening and quickly drinking her water, before a whisper, “Thank you, Mr. S. I will. Keep that in mind that is!” I nodded, and she went off to class.

A month before graduation, she was in my office, a large suitcase in hand, her mother had kicked her out. To be honest, I can’t say I would complain, but it left the poor girl homeless. The only things she had were the suitcase, a horribly overdue to be replaced toothbrush, and her school uniforms and a week’s worth of undergarments. While I helped her cope with the rejection of her mother, the school administration were working to get her a home. The reason her mother kicked her out, was she just turned eighteen, with a screaming “Go shack up with the teachers you’re fucking!” as a goodbye. I wanted nothing more than to go find the girl’s mother and beat her face in, but Ginger never saw even an eye-twitch to suggest it.

They did manage to get her into a halfway home to finish the school year and graduate. She did manage to pass with a full four-point-oh GPA for the year, and the administrative counselors managed to get her some grants to go to college. During that last month, the halfway home actually treated her better than her mother, and I saw a little climb in her self-esteem. Her clothes no longer as sloppy looking, buttons always set, her hair looking styled each day. She even started wearing some makeup, accenting her features without being too much, but she was still quiet, too much time being beaten down to think anyone would want to include her for that last month, though many of the boys from most of the cliques definitely had interest. For her sake, I was glad she didn’t realize what it was, though. That kind of experience could ruin her.

During the summer, I was working the college venue, the high schoolers no longer on my mind. But that fall, I looked over my new student rosters, and my eyebrows both popped. Ginger had literally taken every Psychology class she could without prequests, and since my Intro class in the high school counted as a 101, that meant she was in all my second-semester classes the first semester. The first class I had with Ginger was Human Sexuality, and as I entered the classroom, moving to the board to introduce myself, there she was, front and center. Her hair was shorter, but well styled, made up, glasses on, still wearing her high-school blouse and skirt. “Good morning, everyone. I am Doctor Shlitter, but I don’t care about the title. And I’m well aware that many have difficulty pronouncing my name. So, I leave it to each of you, you can call me Doctor Shlitter, Doctor S, Mister Shlitter, Mister S. Or just Sir.” I grinned at them, drawing a soft titter of laughter, the whole class put at ease.

The class went along as scheduled, going over first biology, then the differences between Sex and Gender, Gender Identity, Sexual attraction and the variances within, and many were blown away by how much more those supposedly simple concepts were, showing the history of how the idea of what was masculine or feminine, how beauty standards started, and more. Then the class started getting interesting. Field trips to various places to include sex stores, and had panels of people living alternate lifestyles come in to give first hand experiences, including a pre and post op transgenders, criminal psychologists, and more. These people always brought them with a chance for extra credit, but always with the appropriate warnings. The transgender extra credit was in depth study and reports on gender identity and everything that went into being Trans. The criminal psychologist would allow the students to sit in during interviews or sessions with sexual criminals, and again a report, but with the heavy warning that the people they would be listening to never had remorse. I admitted that while I gave the opportunity, I myself could never sit in.

Finally, the BDSM panel. They were very careful on how they addressed me when they came in, to ensure no one realized the truth. They explained the difference between kink and lifestyle, what kink vs fetish was, and went over both, in a general sense, the types of Dominants and submissives, as well as different types of play. They explained safe words, contracts, and how important trust was. I had the class take a break, the panel and I sitting around. Elliot, a pet, “It’s just amazing to see you like this Sir. I’m so used to the gaze and tone, and it just not being there is...weird.” I laughed softly to her, shrugging. “Well, you all know that my degree is worthless as a shrink, and the teaching jobs pay enough to still be active.” George clapped his hand on my shoulder, “Well, after you went professional, it’d be a damned shame if you had to leave. Glad to have you. So, what’s the deal with the school girl?” I shook my head, “She’s had a hard life.” Elliot giggled, “She can’t keep her eyes off you, Sir.” Then break was over.

At the end of class, “Ok guys. The extra credit for this is more hands-on. The panel are part of the local power exchange, and tomorrow night is open house. IF you want to go, please do. Participate as much as you are allowed and want. Yes, a report is due to get the credit. But, understand this. Power Exchange, in ANY form, is a matter of trust! If you go, you do NOT talk about who you may recognize. Some are fine being open, others could have their jobs or livelihoods damaged because of the public image of the lifestyle. If you go, you do NOT ask for personal information, real names. If you recognize someone, you do NOT out them. George will let me know if any of you go, and if you do go and I find out you break that trust, you will be failed from this class and kicked, with no questions asked.”

The next night, I got myself ready. Vest, pants, gloves, and I loaded my demonstration trunk. Finally, my mask, because all said and done, I was one of those people I was talking about, where my tenure at the university and job at the high school would be killed if I was outed. No one in the exchange would out me, but it was open house. I looked at my arm, the ink showing me as a professional Dom drawing a smile to my face. All said and done, I gave more stock and credit to the ink than I did my degree. Degrees are easy, just do the work. The ink showed a mastery, a dedication to the craft, and was not given out to just anybody.

At the exchange, I was early, going into the club. It wasn’t secret that the exchange ran in the back of the dance club, the two venues completely separate. No chances of a clubber finding their way back without an invite, but it was still hard to not think of the building as a whole as a club. It was my night for demonstration, which was always a fun one for me. Tonight was ties and strikes, low key enough that I knew any students that did show wouldn’t be completely overwhelmed, but intense enough to give them a good idea of what it was like.

An hour later, the meeting started, the regulars there, with about thirty more new people. At first, I didn’t see any of my students, but then my eyes caught her, Ginger. She signed in, explained why she was there, then took a seat. Her body language said it all, she was excited but uncomfortable, like it was a mistake to have any interest in being here. There were quite a few sets of eyes on her, though, both genders, and both tops and bottoms. She was an unknown, though anyone who watched could tell she would never be a Domme. The meeting went along well enough, introductions, the exchange’s ideas and mission(as it were), talking about upcoming meet and greets, feelers out to the local kink community for collaborations, and then the demonstration. I was on stage, body relaxed and smile bright.

“Good evening friends, I’m The J. Tonight’s demo is low-key for our members and regulars, but I feel a decent display for our newcomers. Now, as we’ve explained, Power Exchange is a matter of trust. The bottom places trust of themselves, of their very lives on occasion, to the Top. AND with that, the Top must trust the bottom to respond honestly, truthfully, and to pay attention. Tonight’s demo will showcase both forms of trust, the first portion showing the bottom’s trust, with ties. The second, the trust from the Top, with strikes. Now, this is not one I can do by myself, so I need a volunteer to be tied up, and struck.” I turned to the girls that were members, when I saw a hand and a body follow in the seats, turning to look at who stood, seeing Ginger shyly smiling, now wearing the simple masquerade mask she was given to help conceal her identity if she did just this. “Yes?”

She lowered her hand, voice trembling, and I figured she was going to excuse herself, but was shocked, “M...may I? Volunteer? I’m doing this for class, and would like to give a good report, with experience.” I blinked at her, and she swallowed, and I felt the room’s shift. The dominants definitely didn’t object, some really wanting to see the school uniformed girl tied up. The submissives, both new and old, just respected her for even trying. And there were no rules against a newcomer participating in the demonstration, so long as everything was in order. However, knowing it was my student, knowing how she looked to me, made the decision difficult. “We will start the demonstration in fifteen, smoke’m if you got’m.” I waved her up to the stage, and George came over, and I could tell he was as uncomfortable as I was with the risk.

My very first question, “So, for class. You look like you’re in high school, what kind of school would have you come here?” She grinned, looking down, unable to meet my eyes, “I’m actually in college, first semester. This is an extra credit opportunity, and I’d like to do really well on it for my Professor.” Nothing in her tone suggested she even thought I was the same person, and George nodded. We went over what I would be doing, tying her into more and more constrictive positions, then I would use various methods to spank her, including hand, paddle, and cane. We went over her limits, explaining each one on the form, and she rated each, and I couldn’t help but whistle as she claimed to have almost no limits. Finally, we went over her safe-word, she choosing “Essay.” With that all out of the way, she signed the waiver, saying that she was here willingly, that she volunteered for the demo, and that the exchange and I myself could not be held if she decided she didn’t like what happened.

Before we began, I talked with her, very quiet, “This is a demonstration, school girl.” Even though I knew her name, she couldn’t think of an alias, so I just referred to her as such because of the uniform. “That means the ropes will be tight, and bite into your skin. It needs to be RIGHT because if I go loose, because you’re new, you can get hurt. It may pinch the wrong way. I will continue to ask if you are alright, how you feel. Be HONEST with me. If it’s too much, tell me. If you want me to ease off, say “Yellow Light.” If you need to stop, “Essay.” After I put you in the final pose, I will begin the strikes. If you don’t want to do this, just say so. No one here will think less of you.” She just gave me a soft smile, “You remind me of Mister S. Thank you for that. It actually...makes me calmer right now.” I could tell she wasn’t baiting me, but I took the risk, “Who’s Mr. S?” She laughed, breaking eye contact, “He...helped me in high school, and is my professor now. You’re like him, making sure I know what’s about to happen, and my options.” I nodded, and she still had no clue that I was both people.

The demo started, me going over the different types of ropes, the pros and cons of each type: hemp, nylon, cotton, and wool. I explained how many like to try different materials, such as chain or cable and why it was wrong. Then, the different types of knots, and what each was used for. And finally, I put my hands on her. I started with the basic torso tie, her impressive bust fit to burst the blouse as she was cinched down. This went into further and further, more restrictive ties, arms together, behind back, legs bent, and suspension. By the end, I could feel her trembling, eyes glossing over already, and I knew we most likely would have a new member the following meeting. I hadn’t done anything with her, and she was hitting subspace.

Finally, she was left bound, on the ground, on the table face down, bent at the waist, ankles tied to the legs of the furniture. “How are you doing, school girl?” She gasped, softly, “Good Sir. I promise.” I nodded, then lifted that pleated skirt, her still-underwear covered cheeks exposed. I went into strikes, starting with the hand and spanking. How it gave the personal touch, and how it could be either funishment or punishment, depending on how one hit. I demonstrated both, one strike each, and Ginger cried out for both, the punishment spank drawing a wince, and the funishment a soft moan. I checked to see if she could take more, and a nod led me to giving her ten punishment spanks, showing how the hand stayed stiff, straight, and how it struck deeper, her cheeks that weren’t covered by her panties glowing. Then, ten funishment spanks, the curved hand making a bigger noise but every so slightly removing the impact pressure.

After, I noticed her head was turned away from the crowd, and stepping to look, saw the tears. I came close, voice low and not carrying, and seeing the scars I had noticed the previous year more clearly, knowing they were cuts and not gravel. “Are you ok?” She nodded, breathless, “It….it feels good. Like...a relief, Sir. Please, don’t stop.” I nodded, recognizing what she was falling into, then took the paddle. I showed the right way to swing, going over the different materials, then gave her fifteen hard paddles, and her moan, and shudder, so subtle I doubt anyone saw or heard it but me, though the shimmer on her thighs may have been seen. The last, I brought out the cane, explaining the risk of damage, showing where to hit and where to never come close. Two swift swings, the cane whistling through the air, I saw her seize, and then a very soft, “Essay.” I looked to her, face frozen in fear, and quickly realized that her past made this tool very terrifying. I put the cane away, and started untying her.

“And our lovely volunteer has used her safe word, so we are finished with the demonstration.” Everyone got up and milled as I finished untying her, her hands on her wrists where the rope had dug in, her unable to meet my gaze. I took her in back, knowing already how terribly important the aftercare would have to be. I had her sit as I got her a water, then came back to her, pulling her chair to face mine, sitting as well. “School girl, thank you.” She blinked, rapidly, looking up to me, catching my smile. “Thank you. For using your safe word. It is obvious that for whatever reason the cane was too much. I don’t need to know the reason, either. You did RIGHT by calling your safeword.” She blinked back some tears, trying to swallow, and I nodded to the bottle, “Open it, drink. You need the fluids even with as little as we did.” She complied, and I gave her the smile, “Good girl.” She damn near sputtered at the comment, but I didn’t notice. “You did wonderfully, by the way. You took all the ties, you allowed me to showcase your body. You were...excellent.” Her cheeks were almost glowing as much as her butt had, eyes down, breaths fast and hard, and I came closer, resting my hand on her arm, “It’s ok. You did great. You took the spankings like a pro, and the paddle. You knew you couldn’t take the cane, so you used your safeword. Your assignment will probably be great.”

The next class, she was still front and center, a soft flush on her face as we discussed the psychological reasons for the Lifestyle, going further into than the panel had. The reasons, both mental and chemical, why it was good. How the interactions didn’t need to mean sex. We spent most of the class exploring the subject, and at the end, I told everyone who went to the meeting and wrote a report to just leave them on their desks, and everyone who did not to leave a blank piece of paper. This way everyone left something, and no one was outed for going or not. As I had observed, only Ginger had gone, her report however gave me pause.

In it, she explained going to the meeting, the anxiety and fear that it was a mistake. But as the meeting went on, she realized how normal it was, because it’s how we treated it. Reaching out, networking, ensuring people were taught properly, to understand it over what porn or pop culture and movies made it seem like. Then, she went into a far more detailed recalling of volunteering, first talking about how the Dominant was so calm, gentle, and polite. Inquiring about her life, and ensuring she knew she was safe. How He went over what would happen, so she wouldn’t be surprised, then did it. She went on to talk about how she felt when His gloved hands brushed her skin, His warmth against her, and how she felt more and more secure, at ease, and comfortable as she was tied tighter, harder, and more restrictive, ending with her tied to that table, unable to do more than wiggle. Then, checking to see if she was safe, the skirt up, and His hands on her. “The spankings to, well, punish. Like when a child is punished for breaking something. Those hurt, were sharp, fast, and i felt my cheeks bruising. But...they did something, incredible. It was like...each spank was fixing me, punishing me for something i’d done. Slowly, a weight lifted from my chest, and the tears came, because i knew i’d be ok.” I had noticed the tendency to capitalize the references to the Dominants, which was actually pretty normal in online encounters, or written media, but her falling to lower case for herself when talking about the scene made me bite my lower lip. “And then, He did the other type. Funishment. It’s...harder to explain. Those are like normal punishments, but not because of trouble, but because it’s fun. The hard spankings made me feel like i was being fixed….those ones made me feel..wanted. That i was worth having, worth keeping.” I swallowed as I continued, knowing damn well that my job could be destroyed if anyone figured out I was who she was talking about. “Then, He got the paddle. He explained to everyone so many things about it, i couldn’t even keep it at all. At this point, i was floating, just...there. i couldn’t move, but felt free. i know i was crying, and He made sure i was ok. Then He started with the paddle. So hard against me, my brain just went further and further into that cloud, that fuzz, and i knew….i belonged there. By the last swat, i had..orgasmed. Hard. Because...i don’t know why. He didn’t notice, or say anything if He did. But then the cane came out, and i was terrified, and used my safeword. He didn’t even bat an eye! Just stopped, untied me, then took me in back, and made sure i was good. He stayed with me for two hours while i calmed down. Made sure i had a safe ride home. It took so long, because how could i tell Him? How could i tell Him i needed Him? To take me, make me His, and i wanted it right there, on the table.”

I continued to read, well aware how stiff I was getting at the girl’s, well not fantasy. Her desires, her needs, her admission to herself that she finally saw a venue she had worth in. The whole report was typed and printed, with the final page a quickly scrawled handwritten note, “Please, Professor S, forgive me! I wrote this that night, printed it this morning, and only remembered everything during class. I am so embarrassed by this, but….I didn’t want to disappoint you by not turning it in. If you don’t want me to stay, I’ll understand. -Ginger”

Of course I wasn’t going to drop her from my class. Previous years had much more explicit and detailed reports, even some who went for private sessions after the general meeting. By comparison, hers was quite tame, but still had a decided effect on me, since even if she didn’t know, I did know it was me she was thinking of. However, it did mean I needed to step back from the lifestyle, and George agreed with me on that. So I didn’t go to the weekly meeting that week, and wouldn’t for the remainder of the semester.

The next week, Ginger was there, looking both elated and dejected, and I noticed the choker on her neck. Nothing spectacular, or obtuse. But it did draw my attention, though nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. The week after that, it was a little bigger. The week after that, it was apparent she wasn’t wearing her bra. Each week she seemed more nervous, and a little more down. This bothered me, but again, I couldn’t just approach her and say “What’s going on Ginger? You’re acting like you have a Master you don’t want.” It would be too much, too personal. Her grades didn’t suffer, nor did her attentiveness in class.

Until a test near the end of semester. Still braless, the new collar large with a D-ring on it, and she looked terrified and nervous. Prior to the test, she kept looking at her cell phone, but was good enough to not do anything, until one text. She just looked at the screen, then to me, jaw set hard, reminding me of when she said her thigh was cut up from gravel, and while no one else noticed, I did. Her legs spread, as though to show off, and silently I began to curse. However, I never looked, never let my gaze drop, and continued the lesson until the test. Ten minutes in, I looked at her, and saw her hand under the desk, phone on. Very subtle, no one behind her or beside her saw it, but I did.

I stood, moving to her desk, as she looked up, eyes wide, my hand open, “Phone and test, Ginger. You know I have a zero tolerance policy on cheating.” Tears instantly filled her eyes, body trembling, before handing me the phone. I saw the messenger program up, but didn’t read, instead flipping the phone over in hand and pulling the battery, then took her test and went to my desk. “The rest of you, twenty minutes left. Ginger, after class.” She couldn’t look at me, just nodding, her eyes on her phone. I knew she wasn’t cheating, everything else told me. She had a Dominant, who was pushing her, training her. The collar, the lack of undergarments, forcing her to do things. Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem, but this was interfering with class, and she didn’t seem happy about it. I had no doubt he or she had demanded Ginger flash me.

After class, she just sat there, tears on cheeks, and I watched her. Finally, “You know how I feel about cheating Ginger.” She shook her head, voice hoarse, “I wasn’t, Sir. I...was just talking.” I shook my head, and again, knew the truth, but without outing myself, I couldn’t console her directly, “I have a no-cell-phone policy for a reason. Even if you weren’t cheating, it looked like you were.” She looked to me, eyes wide, “I..have a….boyfriend.” The last word was forced, like it wasn’t the word she wanted, and I asked, “Is it that Dominant from your report? I see the collar.” She shook her head, that dejected look from weeks prior on her face, “No, he never came back. It’s someone else..though. From there.” I nodded, softly, “I see. And he was talking to you? Making sure you were doing well?” Her gaze drifted, looking away, “Not..quite. T...training me.” I watched her, her arms coming around her stomach and chest, and I could see the tell-tale black of a harness under her blouse. She was afraid, mostly of my judgement.

I’d seen this, many times over the years. A new sub throwing themselves into the lifestyle, taking the first Dominant that they liked who showed interest in them, but never made sure they were a good mesh. And then, like any aspect of life, there were predators. “Just an observation, Ginger. You don’t seem happy. Your report made the demonstrator seem like they knew you, and that you responded to them.” A small smile came to her lips, which spread to her eyes, and the lack of a bra became very evident at the memory, “I’m not telling you what to do, Ginger. But if this one doesn’t have that effect on you, maybe he’s not right for you. And, I’m not telling you what to do, just giving you food for thought.” She nodded, looking to me, “And...my test?” I looked at her, and nodded, “I’ll let you retake it. Tomorrow I’m at the High School, will be here at seven. If you’re serious, you’ll be here.”

The next night, at seven, she was there on campus, outside my class. We went in, sat down, and I noticed while the collar was on, and the bra was obviously missing, she was much calmer. I gave her the alternate copy of the test, her phone off and sitting on my desk to avoid even the suspicion of cheating, and thirty minutes later she was done. Handing her the phone, she turned it on, and her face fell. “I...I’m sorry, Sir...but,” I nodded, “Go. I’m sorry this was the only time I had for makeup, Ginger.” She was out the door quickly, heading to the meeting. My own face fell, because I had a decent idea what was going on.

That Saturday, I was at the mall, feeling abnormally social. I had stopped at Gamestop, looked at the stores that sold suits, and just enjoyed watching people while I ate. A flash of white over plaid caught my eyes, and I saw Ginger, and my face grew hard, I could feel it. Her “Dominant” was one of our upstarts. He’d read some Gor, and watched porn, and had this very wrong idea of what the lifestyle was about, and refused to learn the truth. None of our regulars would do more than a scene on occasion with him, since he had a tendency to go too far. She saw me, and tried to come over, when he grabbed her, keeping her at his side. The two talked, and a lull in the crowd let me hear one word from her: “Essay.” He shook his head, and that’s when I was done.

I stood up, moving over, the professor gone, only the Dominant present. He saw me coming, as did she, and both had mixed expressions. He was defiant and wanting to leave, she was afraid but seemed to reach out to me. Up close, she saw the tension, and saw the gaze, her breath instantly hitching, seeing something far more than what I took her through that first night. I didn’t even have to speak, he just let her go, “You tell him, now, and then meet me in the car. Five minutes.” He was gone and I looked to her, her jaw trembling, though that anger left my face quickly. She took a breath, “I...have to drop your class, Sir. And college.” I blinked at her, and shook my head, she continued, “I missed the meeting, and he wanted to play that night...I…” she trailed off, eyes down. Finally, I spoke, “I’m disappointed, Ginger.” She shuddered like I had hit her, face paling softly. “You know how much work the administration, and I personally, did to get you into college. Get you set up.” Her eyes closed, disappointment in her face, and I stepped in closer, “But, fuck that. I don’t care about any of that. There are tons of people who waste more money, their parents money. That’s not important. I’m disappointed in you.” My voice was soft, tender, but still conveyed my feelings, drawing her gaze up. “You’re better than this. You want to be a sub, be a slave, then do it. But don’t settle for a piece of shit who won’t listen to you. Who won’t respect your safeword, yes I heard it. Find one who values you, who wants you to thrive, not JUST be a thing for their entertainment.” She was watching me, blinked once.

Then, in a tiny voice, “My report never said what my safeword….was….” her eyes fell to my left arm, my sleeves having rolled up in my frustration, her eyes growing wide, voice almost non-existent, “I know that ink.” I reached up, and pulled my sleeve back down, now unable to meet her gaze. “Was….was it you?” A sigh and a nod, her breath hitching again. My own voice was tight, “I’m one of those people, Ginger. My tenure and job at the high school dead if I’m outed. I almost didn’t let you participate, until I realized you didn’t know it was me.” She blinked and nodded, “I...had no clue.” I met her gaze finally, and it was just a little uncomfortable, her realizing that her report told me everything she wanted “Me” to do. Finally, “Am I why you didn’t come back since?” I nodded, her eyes dropping, “I didn’t mean to run you out,” before I shook my head. “Ginger, if I was there every week, what would you have done.” Her mouth opened and closed, smile on her lips again, “Tried to sit with..you...and….” she trailed off as she realized what would have happened. “Exactly. You didn’t run me out. I just really needed to protect both myself, and you, by not being there to make a situation that would be regretted after.”

She gave a sad smile, looking down. My voice gentle, “I have no control over you, Ginger. I’m just your professor. I’ve helped you along the way as much as I could. But you owe ME nothing. But I’m just going to say, HE isn’t a good fit for you. It’s obvious. Especially since he didn’t respect your safeword.” She swallowed, dryly, eyes down, “He said the collar made it official. I’m his.” I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head, “Did you sign a contract?” She shook her head, “Did you participate in a collaring ceremony?” Another shake. “You don’t even have a tag on your collar, schoolgirl.” Her breath caught, eyes to me, “He’s taking advantage of your naivety. You owe HIM nothing. Just don’t play with him. Don’t take his phone calls. Tell George, he’ll ensure you are left alone.” She nodded, smiling brightly, reaching up and taking that collar off, holding it in her hands. “For all his show of owning you, he didn’t even put a lock on the leather.” She giggled at my words, looking back to me, eyes widening as she realized I was serious.

The next week, she was in my class again. Bra on, though she was wearing a choker. After class, she waited, spoke to me, “I gave him the collar, took a bus home. He had nothing of mine, and I told him to not bother me. The phone was his. Last..last week, he was going to have me take a picture of myself, but you caught me. I deleted all the other pictures, and reset the phone, so he has nothing to hurt me with. Tomorrow, I’ll tell George. Um….” her eyes down, “Thank you, Sir. For talking to me. Looking out for me.” I smiled and nodded, “Good girl. And any time.”

The next week, after class, she came to me, holding the student and staff handbooks. “So, Sir.” I looked up, eyebrow popping, “Yes?” She had a sly grin, opening both books, “So, the rules for this university are very specific, about staff/student interactions. There is no barring them, except where there is a credible show of favoritism. Nothing says they can’t date, nothing says they can’t hang out.” She lifted her chin, shoulders rolling back, sly grin deepening, “Nothing saying that we can’t interact, either casually or closely, at an off-campus organization. It even states that certain social activities should NOT be avoided by either staff or students in spite of possible overlap, through competitive or cooperative interactions, between both.” She fell silent, lips between her teeth, and my own face pulled into a smile, chuckling. “So,” she finished, “you should have no reason to avoid the Exchange now.”

The next night, I did go. It wasn’t open house, so I didn’t bother with my mask. Ginger found me quickly, waving softly, smiling brightly. George caught me up, our little shit finally run out of the group for how he treated her. She was a full dues-paying member, now training in general service, and even one week of it showed a thriving personality. “J….she’s waiting for you.” The meeting went on, then finally, near the end, groups broke off for conversations. She came to me, eyes downcast, still clothed but I could feel the difference. The hope of maybe, the knowledge she didn’t have to settle, she was standing tall, proud. We spoke a little, of class, of the exchange. “I...want to, Sir. Try more. With You.” Here, I could hear the inflection with the references to me.

That Saturday, was a scene. It was at my home, large, spacious, a solid dungeon in the basement. It was always exhausting when hosting, having little to no time to play myself, but it’s worth it, seeing everyone being able to interact and scene safely. Ginger was there, and a few of the Dominants tried to get her in the center, but she politely declined. Not a wallflower, per se, but she was just watching. Saw the wax play, the ropes, the whipping and flogging. The latex, boards, the masks. So many kinks, the Daddy and babygirl, the feral tamed by the Primal, and more. She saw me moving, ensuring the rooms for public scenes were clean, that people were being respectful, ensuring the rules were adhered to. At the end, as I flumped in my chair for the fortieth time that night, she was by my side, on her knees, holding a bottle of water for me.

I looked at her, and saw the need, unspoken, but powerful. She wanted to feel that freedom of restriction, that safety of danger, that pleasure of pain at my hands. A soft smirk came to my lips as she blushed, looking down, unspoken conversations exchanged in glances, before I stood, moving to the floor. The handful of members still present all stopped, turning as I went to work, and she followed, silent, kneeling as I prepared the scene. First, I got and cleaned rope, then set up the Saint Andrew’s cross. She watched, and I could hear her breath getting faster, knowing already this was going to be hard. Looking at her, still in her skirt and blouse, never seeming to remove them, I held out my hand, and she stood, coming over to me. Looking her in the eyes, my fingers began to work, one button at a time, undoing the sheer white material, her lips quivering, eyes dropping as I opened the material, seeing her body for the first time, the lack of bra giving me a full view of her. It was obvious that she had not only used her thigh and hip, the soft scars telling me much, as well as signs of abuse from her mother, my eyes over them, before my fingers came to her stomach, tips barely touching her skin, trailing up between her breasts, over her neck, and to her chin, lifting her gaze back to me, “Beautiful.” A whisper, just for her, tears in her eyes as I accepted her, non-judgement in my eyes or voice. The blouse was then slid from her shoulders, down her arms, and deposited on the chair.

Next was the skirt, though she was wearing a pair of panties, snug, covering her lower lips, hugging them to show them off, but was other than that extra width, it was just a thong, showing her full rear. She swallowed, now only in the thigh-high stockings, shoes, and thong, in front of still over half a dozen people, her eyes on mine, nodding that she was ok. The rope came up, and I put her in a torso tie. This one, however, was not designed to just showcase her body, to hold her in, but by pulling the ends continued to cinch down around her ribs. Once she was set, I gave the first tug, the knots letting it grow tighter around her, not slipping back, her gasp loud in the quiet room, breath shallower. Then, she was face-first against the cross, arms up and wrists in cuffs, then legs. Far from done, I took the next length of rope, and tied her to the cross properly, from wrist to shoulder on both arms, then hip to ankle on each leg. The snug, almost too-tight crisscross pattern gave her limbs no room to wiggle, before her waist and chest were similarly bound to the frame, the only thing she could move was her head. She was not gasping, but panting, the tightness around her chest making it a small effort to breath, not unlike exerting yourself while running. I came around the cross, face to face with her, her pupils dilated, my voice firm, “You remember your safeword?” She swallowed, nodding, “Good girl.” A moan at that, body trying to wiggle, to writhe, to be more than just on display. I went to the wall in front of her, taking down my paddle, her eyes going wide as she saw it. Large, eight inches wide by almost a foot long, the handle capable of letting two hands hold it. The grip was bound in cured leather, giving a solid grip that wouldn’t pinch while swinging. The wood was mahogany, stained a dark dark red, and there were a few holes cut, neatly and sanded, through the surface, allowing less drag, for faster and harder swings, giving more sting. I came to her, eyes on hers, tears already forming even as she smiled and swallowed, having an idea of what was coming.

I then was behind her, left hand in her hair, pulling her head back firmly. “Count them, out loud. It will hurt, but give me that pain.” Her voice a whisper, “Yes Sir!” Looking, I could see the trails of goosebumps across her skin, then I let her head go. First, I blew in my hands, tucking the paddle under my arm, then rubbed them together to warm them up, then gently rubbed her cheeks, knowing how sore they would soon be. Then, I got myself ready, paddle in hand, “Here it comes.” The only warning she had, before the loud crack of wood on skin, her voice crying out instantly, pain and relief flooding the number, “One!” Then again, and again. Each swing was full, hard, the movement fast and the crack on skin loud, but I was in no rush. I took my time, ensured each was perfect, watching, almost fascinated, as her rear smooshed and jiggled from each blow. At ten, I paused, her voice shuddering, tears freely running down her face, body trembling against the cross. Then, I took the ends of the torso-tie, and cinched it down more, shortening her breath.

I came to her, my words only for her, lips almost on her ear, “Those, were for thinking you would do yourself discredit by leaving school for a fuckboi.” Soft, gentle, no anger, no intensity, just a calm, soothing tone, the tighter pull on her lungs making the “Thank you!” breathier than normal, her cheeks flushing from the why. Then I stepped back, and readied myself. “And again,” I warned her before the next crack on skin, another ten slow, hard, perfect paddles, her cheeks glowing red from my attention now, her voice hoarse as she cried out “Twenty!” Then back to her, “Those, were for you thinking you had no one to turn to. For thinking yourself below others. You are stronger than you want to believe, than what you are afraid you aren’t.” She just nodded, before my hands were on those ties again, cinching her down one last time, her breaths tiny gasps now, each breath a labor. “One more set,” before the paddle swung and cracked again. Her entire body was trembling, her inner thighs glistening from her juices, I could see her on the verge, knowing she wanted to, remembering she already had, she wanted to orgasm from my administrations, but she couldn’t, knowing this was more. Finally, her voice almost unable to be heard, screaming “THIRTY!”

I moved in front of her, hand through her hair, cradling her softly, lifting her gaze to me, “And those were for thinking no one could love you, and thinking you aren’t worth having. You are wrong on that, Ginger. So very wrong.” Her eyes closed tight, nodding hard as she could, each breath a tiny gasp, having to breathe in after every word, “Thank...you…..Sir….” I placed the paddle on the cleaning table, moving beside her, left hand on her throat, gently stroking her, right hand on her rear, the red visible, hand gently, so gently stroking her, soothing the on-fire nerves. This drew a new set of shivers, my voice louder, “Do you want something?” She gasped, nodding, “Yes… Yes.. please! Let…. me….. cum?!” I shook my head, the hand on her throat turning her to look at me, “Why.” Her lips trembling, “I...want..to...please. All…. this… is… making…. me… want… to!” I grinned at her, still soothing her rear, feeling her hips tremble, “What do you mean.” She swallowed, and I felt her throat work under my fingers, watching me, “Giving…. you…. my…. pain. Being…. yours. Here…. and…. now.” I leaned in closer, “Being mine?” She nodded, eyes locked on mine even as I knew she couldn’t focus, voice for her only, “I punished you, because it pleases me to help you. To give you this release, Ginger.” Her eyes rolled up, just a bit, body shuddering at the thought, that this pain she had right now was pleasing me, but not because she hurt. But because she hurt to feel better. That’s what pleased him. “Let…. my…. cum… please…. you….” I looked at her, bringing my hand lower now, on the bottom curve of her cheek, fingers so close to her she cried out in frustration. “You forgot one word,” I whispered, and she all but screamed it as loud as she could, her entire body spasming, “MASTER!”

My own eyes went wide, only expecting a “Sir” out of her, the admission of how she saw herself to me enough to push her over the edge. My hand left her throat, sliding up to cradle her face again, tilting her head to rest her forehead against mine, my fingers not needed for that powerful orgasm. She was sobbing with relief, lips in a smile, trying to get more contact against me, so I pushed up against her, and she could feel me, how hard I was, my voice a whisper, “Do you mean that?” She nodded, and I kissed her softly, “More than I expected, but...welcome. Thank you,” and this drew another crying, shivering orgasm from her, knowing she pleased me that much.

That was four years ago. Tonight, I watch her on her knees, in front of me, holding her hair up, once again in that too small blouse and skirt, the piercings in her nipples keeping her hard against the sheer material, her clit hidden but also sporting gold, her holding her hair up as I slide my collar of training off her neck, depositing it in a case. I take the new one out, a cured black leather, buckle in back with two prongs, and slide it around her neck, buckling it. Next, a lock, going through the buckle and belt, however I did not latch it. Her own hands came behind her, wordlessly, turning and clicking it into place, giving me the key. This went back into the case, and I hooked my finger through the D-ring, lifting, her standing, “Mine, forever.” She blushed hard, still even after this time, nodding, “I love you, Master,” before I brought her against me and took her in a deep kiss.


End file.
